Into the Void
by caetria
Summary: Loki manages to control his fall from the Bifrost and lands on Midgard without ever encountering the Other. Once there, he disguises his form to hide from both Heimdall and SHIELD while building a reputation as a powerful mage - so powerful, in fact, that when the Chitauri invade, he is recruited into the Avengers Initiative. Post-Thor, Avengers AU.
1. The Void

Chapter 1 : In Which Loki Masters the Void

_"No, Loki."_

And for an eternity and no time at all, Loki fell. The glittering, jagged edges that remained of the Bifrost receded above him; the shards of the bridge suspended around him grew ever fewer in number - then even that light disappeared into nothing as he fell further and further, blackness all around until Loki thought he would go mad with it. Whether he was falling still, or now suspended like the rainbow fragments of the bridge he had passed before he could not say. Everything was darkness and silence, the gently glowing spheres of magic he cast utterly useless with nothing to illuminate.

Once, he had screamed, a long, sustained howl seemed to ring in his ears though there was surely nothing to carry the sound in the emptiness. He expected to die, after that - hoped for it, perhaps; after everything, entering dear Hela's realm could only be a release - but that mercy was denied to him. It seemed he had no need for breath in this void between the realms. He wondered, a touch hysterically, if this oblivion was how mortals envisioned death. No wonder they clung so desperately to their feeble lives.

In another universe, it was at this point Loki resigned himself to his fate. He would draw into himself and hide from the endless nothing until he was found by the foul creatures that spawned from this space and made their puppet. But - no. No. Perhaps Loki was not Asgardian by blood, but he was a child of Asgard nonetheless.

The Aesir are never helpless. And neither is Loki.

He reached for the magic dearer to him than any weapon, and as much a part of him as any of his limbs. Loki flung the energy out around him in a wide arc, scanning for something, anything. The emptiness was somehow more oppressive without his magic pulled close and protective, but that wouldn't - couldn't - stop him from spreading it thinner, reaching out further until _there_. _Something_.

What it was, how far away, or how large he couldn't say. He didn't care. He dug in with his magic, and _pulled._

* * *

He stumbled as he landed, but that meant nothing with no one there to watch and jeer as he fell, was nothing to the knowledge that he'd dragged himself to a place he _could_ land. Panting, he began instinctively to summon his lights again before breaking off abruptly. Dark still enveloped him, but it had softened to a deep gray from the absolute black of his fall. Glancing downward, he discovering the majority of the ambient light emanated from under him.

It wasn't large, his perch – he could just make where the incredible brightness assaulting his maladjusted eyes dropped of sharply perhaps three paces on either side of him – but it was, at least, recognizable. What he stood atop could only be a shard of Alfheim, realm of the Light Elves. The realm had no moon, he remembered from his visits as a Prince in what may as well be another lifetime. It didn't need one. At night, when all other lights faded, the Alfheim remained lit by the constant white luminance of the ground itself.

Loki had hated it.

The ever-present light had made it nigh impossible for him to sleep, and he'd always felt as though all the luminous eyes of the realm's inhabitants followed him alone. Besides, the Light Elves were staunch allies of the All Father, meaning the realm was out of question for now. At best, they'd simply turn him over to Asgard, and Loki had suffered too much in his fall to return there so easily.

For the first time since discovering his heritage, Loki sat down, closed his eyes – an almost meaningless gesture in this twilight – and _thought_. Once he settled on a realm, he would be trapped there for some time at least. He knew secret paths along the branches of Yggdrasil from Asgard to almost all the other realms, but between the realms was another matter entirely. He needed to be away from Asgard, which meant he'd need to avoid her allies Vanaheim and Alfheim as well. Jotunheim didn't even bear consideration.

Svartalfheim would have been ideal. The Dark Elves and Dwarves that dwelt there had gotten along stunningly well with him for races that traditionally loathed the Aesir – now he knew why. If he revealed his heritage to them, they would hide him, protect him, and his happiness there was all but guaranteed in a way it never was on Asgard. And the stone that plated the realm – insidious black in the way an oil spill was black, with flashes of a thousand colors when the light caught it just so – had always struck a chord with him. He could belong there, unquestionably. It would be easy.

But that wasn't an option. The Bifrost had stretched from Asgard to Jotunheim when the oaf who called himself his brother had taken a hammer to it. Their battle had been closer to Asgard, so his fall would have left him somewhere between the central trunk of Yggdrasil and Alfheim, a fact his footing confirmed. Svartalfheim was clear on the other side of the Great Tree, and Loki wasn't near confident – nor foolhardy – enough to attempt to traverse that distance in such a way. Closer were Alfheim, which he would reach moving away from the trunk, Asgard, upwards and towards the trunk, Jotunheim, down and away from the trunk, and Midgard, down and towards the trunk. Midgard, then was the only option left to him. Distasteful, but then what were a few years spent among mortals while puzzling out the path to Svartalfheim to him, one with the potential to live until Ragnarok?

To orient himself, then. He stretched again with his magic and sensed a cluster to his right imbued with what he identified as the white energy characteristic of Alfheim, now that he knew what to look for. So he needed to go down and left, based on his current position, and that would mean leaving the scant comfort of this Alfar rock for the void once more. Theoretically, if he lunged off towards the left at roughly the same speed of his fall, with nothing, not even air, to stop or slow him in the empty space between the realms, he should end up near Midgard. Hopefully. He had no way of being certain just what that speed was, of course.

_Aesir are not cowards_.

And with that, he leaped.

* * *

For another eternity between the worlds that passed instantly on the realms, Loki kept his magic extended around him. He wasn't certain what he was looking for, but he searched desperately nonetheless. Ironic, then that he missed the first sign of it, an effective blip on his magical radar that dissipated when he tried to close his magic around it.

A moment later, he could have hit himself. What a very _Thorish_ mistake. Midgard was a realm of mainly water, _of course_ such droplets would pepper its skies. He shifted his focus to the interference and static he had been ignoring, and _pushed_ himself in its direction, reveling in the increasing frequency of the droplets splashing against him like rain, a personal storm of his own making, no hammer required.

Statistically, he really shouldn't have been surprised to land in the middle of the ocean.

* * *

This... Totally isn't how this chapter was supposed to go. Dammit Loki, you were just supposed to coincidentally fall to Midgard, and have actual dialogue! Apparently, Loki Does What He Wants, and what he wants is to _make the void his bitch_. Incidentally, according to all sources I've found, the positioning of the worlds here is in accord with Norse mythology, because I care about this things. Most of the details about each realm were made up more or less on the spot though, so I apologize for any errors there. Also, Loki's children's from mythology aren't actually his biological children here, though he does/will have ties with several of them.

I've never actually written anything non-academic before, so if there's something I can do/fix/try to make this better (or if this is just objectively terrible and I should never write again), please let me know!


	2. Jotun

Chapter 2 : In Which Loki Discovers That This Whole Frost Giant Is Sort Of Useful, Actually

A/N: You guys... You _guys_. You're great. All of you. Thank you so much, everyone who read, alerted, fave'd, and especially those who reviewed. It's incredible to know that there are people out there who care about this!

* * *

_Statistically, he really shouldn't have been surprised to land in the middle of the ocean._

On the whole, this wouldn't be a problem if his leaving the timeless void hadn't been accompanied by the need to recommence certain vital processes. Breathing, for example.

His pride at reaching Midgard is being rapidly eroded by the increasing ratio of water to air in his lungs. He is too disoriented, too overwhelmed by the sudden influx of sensations after so long of nothingness to shape his magic into something useful. In his panic, it slashes wildly around him, whipping the water into a viscous maelstrom that _really isn't helping_.

_Enough_.

It isn't a conscious decision, but as Loki thrashes, the Aesir pale of his skin gives way to Jotun blue, and where cerulean fingers trail in the water, a latticework of ice begins to spiderweb outwards. The crystalline structure grows, thickens, and breaks from him, floating to the surface some distance away.

As quickly as it came, the blue recedes, leaving Loki with a profound exhaustion that mirrors his state immediately after weaving his first bit of magic. It is a bit like growing a new arm all at once. Abruptly, the water seems freezing to him, and he can't tell how much of that is the actual temperature and how much is is own sudden weakness. He knows he has only moments before he loses consciousness all together.

His vision is tunneling out as he manages to draw the block of ice to him and heave himself upon it. Distantly, he hopes Heimdall is still incapacitated from his attack, because Loki has not the strength to shield himself from his All-Seeing gaze, and he refuses to be caught in a manner so _stupid_ after all the effort he's put into getting here.

* * *

When Loki next opens his eyes, the sun is hanging low on the horizon, but its rays still glint blindingly off his float. His mind is sluggish, and it takes him longer than it should to work out what transpired. It is clear that his contact with the Casket of Ancient Winters had a far greater impact than he had initially assumed.

The Jotnar drew their powers from the Casket to a remarkable degree. By themselves, they were massive, fearsome warriors of incredible strength and resilience, but it was through the Casket that their minimal natural control over the ice of their homeland morphed into the absolute mastery of which minstrels still sung. A single brush with it was all they needed to maintain their elemental connection for years at a time.

Removing that ability had been one of the most uniquely cruel punishments Odin had ever devised. In the years after the Casket was taken as a prize, the number of Jotnar who took their own lives from grief as their skills began to fade rivaled the amount who perished in the war.

_Frost Giant_, now, was nothing more than a pretty moniker from a bygone age. Certainly, the ice of Jotunhiem was used in all manner of construction, and almost every member of the species could fashion it into some form of weapon, but that was more due to stubborn tradition and an utter lack of any other viable materials in the frozen wasteland. No Frost Giant had achieved the instinctive elemental domination of their forefathers for millennia.

Until, apparently, Loki.

The Norns, he thinks darkly, must be having an excellent laugh at his expense. Or at least finding amusement at the irony somewhere in the depths of their layered psyches. It'll probably be all over Valhalla by the time he dies.

Try as he might, however, he can't find it in himself to be as displeased as he should be by this most recent turn of events. Obligatory revulsion aside, the complete manifestation of his despised heritage did save him from a most ignominious death. And if the Jotnar were always despised, at least when they'd wielded the powers bestowed by the Casket they had been respected as worthy opponents. It was, all things considered, a step up for Loki.

That still leaves him clinging to a melting ice block somewhere in the middle of an ocean on this Gods-forsaken realm.

Teleporting to land is an option, but a poor one. Teleportation, the way he does it, is simply creating the shortest possible path between any two points in space, and moving through before it collapses in on itself. Without a ritual to focus the magic, it requires knowing exactly where he is relative to where he is going. The consequences of a botched long-distance teleport – and it _would_ be botched if he attempted one in his current state – are not ones he is eager to deal with.

Aiming for a spot within his sightline would be less likely to end with the tatters of his physical form scattered throughout the holes in the time-space continuum, though ultimately equally futile as he would likely exhaust himself before reaching land. Still, at the moment he lacks both the capacity to make rational decisions based on realistic estimates of his own abilities and any better options. Clearly, the blond idiot who wields a carpenter's tool as though it were a legitimate weapon has rubbed off on him in all the wrong ways.

With the miles of water in every direction clouding the web of magic that helped him find his way in the void, Loki turns towards the setting sun, shrugs, and decides it's as good a direction as any. A slash of his hand tears a passage in the fabric of reality, and then Loki and his float shift to a spot that appears no closer to the sun, but in fact several miles away from where he began, taking into account his preternatural vision and unobstructed view.

Reality is just beginning to pull itself back together behind him while he prepares to rend it open anew in front when he notices the water darkening beneath his float. This wouldn't be a cause for concern if Loki could just see where the dark _ended_ on any side, because surely no Midgardian creature could be so ridiculously massive as to stretch beyond the edges of his field of vision.

Loki is a prince of two realms. He is a mage, a warrior, and the greatest sorcerer in the Nine Realms. He is a force to be reckoned with and he knows not fear, and as such, he most certainly does not shift back on his ice raft as the tip of one impossibly large, impossibly sharp spine breaks the surface. Not even when the shadow of the spine covers him completely, with no sign of a body coming up any time soon.

Something strange occurs then, which, given Loki's day thus far, is saying something. The spine is still emerging from the water, but at the same time, the shadow it casts is growing shorter. It takes him a moment to realize that the spine is shriveling above him, folding in on itself – no, shrinking. The spine is shrinking, and clearly the beast it belongs to was too, as the serpentine head that arose from the waves while his attention was fixated far above is perfectly proportioned to the new, smaller size of the spine.

Loki doesn't think it speaks aloud, but its words reverberate in his mind nonetheless.

"_You are not of this realm, False Mortal."_

* * *

Loki is less Power-Crazed-Maniac and more Intelligent-Trickster-God in this because I figure while falling through an abyss after finding out your entire life was a lie is certainly traumatic and liable to embitter you towards manipulative one-eyed men in positions of power, it would probably have less of a detrimental effect on your sanity by itself than if it preceded capture and torture by creatures from between the worlds who proceeded to force you to participate in their schemes. And the Norns – Norse equivalent of the Greek Fates, who also tend to Yggdrasil at its roots – absolutely have girls'-nights-out where they exchange gossip with the Valkyries.

Also, I totally switched tenses for this chapter LIKE A NINJA. The rest of the story will probably be written like this, because it seemed to flow better. Hope it doesn't bother anyone.

Next Chapter : In Which Loki Befriends the World Serpent and Hitches a Ride


	3. Jormungand

Chapter 3 : In Which Loki Befriends the World Serpent and Hitches a Ride

A/N: So, in all honesty, this chapter was supposed to be posted just a day or so after the last one, but I managed to slice my hand open on a pane of broken glass and discovered that it's pretty difficult to type with one hand immobilized by pain and sutures. But I pecked out this chapter with the other hand, because the response to this story has been so, so overwhelmingly wonderful, and I couldn't leave you guys hanging! Fingers on the non-mangled hand crossed that it'll heal up quickly, so I can type the next chapter at a speed that isn't so pathetically slow.

* * *

"_You are not of the realm, False Mortal."_

The words do register, but distantly. The majority of Loki's attention is taken by the monstrous figure poised above him, a serpentine silhouette against the setting sun. It is covered in scales of an indeterminate hue, blues and seafoam greens and deep purples dancing along the exposed parts of the creature to match the shifting colors of the ocean. The spine that Loki first saw is one among the ivory set that crown the crest of its great head. Larger spines trail down its back, following the curve of its sinuous body below the waves. Even shrunken down so greatly from their original size, the fangs that spill out from its mouth are each larger than Loki's entire body. Monstrous, perhaps, but undeniably magnificent as well.

"Nor," replies Loki, after some deliberation, "Are you." It is not the most profound statement he could have made, under the circumstances, but it seems to Loki the safest.

As it happens, that was _not_ the safest thing to say. Three words, and the creature already looks ready to tear him apart. That might be a record for Loki, and he wasn't even trying. He watches as it begins to thrash frenziedly, massive body undulating in the water, flaring gold where it catches the sun just right. Fighting unseen bonds.

"_I do not pretend to be what I am not! I do not belong to the world I inhabit, and I keep no pretense that I do!" _

It is an oddly accusatory comment, suggesting knowledge this beast should not have – unless he had witnessed Loki change forms. That could be problematic.

"I am a shapeshifter. I can do naught but pretend. No form is more truly mine than any other." Which is not strictly true, but there is no reason he can't say so.

The serpent tosses its great head.

"_I could swallow you whole, at this very moment, for you are small, and weak, and nothing to me. But if I desired, you could cup me in the palm of your hand and crush my body in your fist. These forms, and all between, belong to me. I am inescapable and invisible as I wish. But when I am vast as the oceans, and my body wraps fully around the seas that I may grasp my own tail in my own jaws, then I am Jormungand as Jormungand is meant to be."_

The creature – Jormungand, apparently – holds his gaze, somehow calmed by this declaration, and something disturbingly close to pity enters the slitted eyes covered by clear, distinctively reptilian lids.

"_But you, little changeling, you do not even know who you are. You taste of sky and frost and dirt and fire, and all of it a deception. You are formless and unmade. You are lost, shifter-child, and lesser because of it."_

Loki allows a smirk filled with arrogance he doesn't feel to curve his lips.

"So great, so vast, yet here you are hunting down weakened, formless creatures in the ocean you claim your playground. Such power you hold, but you cannot harm me, can you? Not even here, in your own domain. You are bound." At least, Loki hopes he is. The consequences of insulting this being could otherwise be unpleasant.

He focuses this time, watching as Jormungand makes to lung at him only for the gold Loki had seen before to coalesce momentarily into bands that tighten around the beast. And, yes, Loki _knows _that seidr. He speaks before he has a chance to think, words spilling out without his habitual polish and giving away more than he intends.

"It seems, then, that we both have been wronged by Odin All-Father." He allows his own magic to skate over the binding restraining the serpent. Indeed, it carries the All-Father's signature, the scent of ozone and the tang of blood and the all the rage and hatred of a thousand battles with the same enemy, barely concealed in its shiny golden gilding. He can use this.

"He has cast you as the villain in his story, bound you here to this pitiful rock and rendered you impotent, has he not?" Loki doesn't wait for a reply. "It is because he fears you. He is wary of your capabilities, and he is not convinced he could stand against you should you one day rise against him. So he struck first, caught you unawares, chained you here aeons ago, and now you do not even cross his mind."

Reactions are always important to observe, infinitely more so when attempting to manipulate an entity physically more powerful than oneself. Loki settles back to watch the rage his barbed words should have unleashed.

"_I am no villain, no matter what he believes. It is an unfortunate consequence of his bargain with Mimir that Odin One-Eyed only ever sees half the picture."_

Loki blinks. There is no anger, no frustration, not even mild irritation. There is only calm certainty and far too much amusement at what was frankly a rather terrible pun.

"And that doesn't bother you? That he has decided for you who you are and will be, that he makes you suffer for the crimes he has decided you will one day commit?"

"_I would destroy him for what he has done to me, but by doing so I would give him far greater claim over my existence than he already possesses. I do myself no favors by dedicating my life to vengeance against him. I only prove him right. My actions will never be such as to vindicate his."_

Loki ponders this. He can see, almost, the rationale. If Jormungand freed himself and attacked the All-Father, failure and an early death would be the only prize for allowing Odin's past actions to dictate his future. More than that, such an attack would retroactively justify the All-Father's preventative measures – _yes, the creature should be hidden, locked away, because look what happens when it finally wields the power that is its birthright, no, Odin was wise to keep him ignorant from the start_. Loki is rapidly losing the battle to avoid drawing parallels to his own situation, but he doesn't _want_ to think about that, so he focuses on being proactive.

The binding is inelegant, clearly the work of one with no innate talents in the arcane arts. To make up for inexperience, a ludicrous amount of power, far more than any proper mage would use, was forced into the spell to hold it in place. While the intent appears to be solely to prohibit Jormungand from inflicting any harm upon Midgard, the shoddy work is clearly obstructing the natural magic he must posses to slip between forms. Loki might yet twist this encounter to his advantage.

"Whatever your intentions towards Odin, I imagine his binding is still undesirable. And painful, I would venture." Loki takes the slight bob of Jormungand's head as a gesture of agreement, or at least acknowledgment of Loki's obvious familiarity with the spellwork. It probably isn't, but it makes him feel better to think so. He continues, "And as I find myself in need of transport to drier regions," he pauses to emphasize this with the sweep of an aristocratic arm, gesturing unnecessarily to their surroundings, "Perhaps we may be of some use to one another."

"_You seem a malicious creature. I would not trust you to carry out any promise you make after you have obtained what you desire from me."_

"It is of no consequence. You have given me no reason to mistrust you, so I am willing to perform my end of the bargain first, on faith." _Lie_. But he can do nothing, right now, that Jormungand does not allow. He turns as guileless a stare as he can manage to the serpent's eyes. "Do we have an accord?"

Jormungand hesitates, and the water churns with his indecision. Finally, he dips his head in a mockery of a bow.

"_We have an accord."_

* * *

It turns out to be easier than he expected to destroy the previous binding. Jormungand is rendered completely unresponsive the first time he tries to manipulate it. A fail-safe, Loki presumes, to keep the serpent from freeing himself. Currently, it works in his favor as it keeps the sea beast immobilized while Loki works.

After that, a few pushes in the right places, and the entire construct breaks apart into slender wisps of magic. It seems such a waste to let the untapped reservoirs of golden energy dissipate, but it is too different from Loki's own to make any use of it. Besides, the binding must be crafted solely from his own magic if he wants Jormungand tied to him. He might have neglected to mention that part when striking the deal.

It isn't so deceitful of him, really. Unless Jormungand works specifically to maintain it, the connection between them will fade soon enough as the binding settles and is able to maintain itself without being tied to Loki. The previous binding had been independent of its creator for so long that the All-Father wouldn't even have felt when it was destroyed. But this connection will last long enough for Loki to ensure that Jormungand delivers him to land.

The binding Loki crafts is more or less a lighter, simpler version of Odin's. The green bonds are less restrictive to the flow of the serpent's own magic, but otherwise serve the same purpose, preventing him from causing harm to this realm or any of its human inhabitants. Besides that, the only adjustment he makes is one unnoticeable to anyone but himself. In the heart of the binding, he weaves in a kill switch, of sorts. A self-destruct mechanism. He leaves one end of the binding loose, so if one were to tug upon it just so, the entire thing would unravel. He isn't quite sure why he does it, but it feels right.

And then it is done. Loki moves back onto the ice float that has somehow survived this entire ordeal, and waits for Jormungand to awaken.

* * *

Before collecting on his end of the bargain, Loki asks a question that has been bothering him since the creature first appeared.

"How did you find me? Why come to me, here, with all the seas at your beck? Why did I matter?"

The serpent stares at him as though he is a particularly slow child.

"_You tasted of nothing, and everything underneath."_

Loki frowns in confusion for a moment before realizing the problem. They are not speaking the same language, not even close.

Their communication is made possible by what is colloquially referred to as the 'All-Tongue' on Asgard. In all actuality, it is not a language but a rather fascinating product of seidr tied to each member of the royal family by means of a small rune. Few outside the royal household are aware of how it works, as Odin preferred keeping the secret of the All-Tongue from his own people to admitting that he practiced magic, however ineptly. Still, even the most incompetent being in the Nine Realms can slap together something useful, given enough time, and Odin had literally all the time in the world. The All-Tongue was less the result of careful craftsmanship by a gifted mage than it was the result of throwing magic at a problem until it went away. The magical equivalent of Thor's favored problem-solving strategy, basically.

Concisely, the purpose of the All-Tongue is to facilitate understanding between disparate groups by making each hear the ideas expressed in their own language, or the closest approximation thereof. Unfortunately, there are no words to express the sensations Jormungand is attempting to describe in the Aesir tongue.

But Loki is more than capable of manipulating the seidr to suit his needs. He reaches out and _twists_ the magic attached to the rune that had been traced onto the hollow of his throat in ages past, and since then hidden by layers of illusion. If he cannot understand in words, perhaps he can feel what Jormungand is trying to express. He throws his consciousness outwards.

Then he is everywhere. No, not precisely. He is enormous, granted, but his awareness stretches far beyond the end of his physical form. He cognizant of everything touched by the waters he inhabits, omniscient in his domain. It is ever-changing in its entirety, but the elements that comprise it always remain the same. Until they don't. Until there is a hole, a wound, a _void_ in his home. But it isn't, not quite, not completely. The emptiness is trailing from a creature, a being that has no definition itself, but is a slapshod construction of star and dust and wind and tide, a little of everything thrown together as though it is meant to form a cohesive whole. It is unlike anything that should exist in the Nine Realms.

It is, Loki realizes, tearing his consciousness from Jormungand's, himself. Loki, who is Jotun and Aesir and who knows what else as he wishes. Loki, the changeling with the emptiness of the void still clinging to him, whose most basic constituents were so unnatural that this sea beast thought him a threat. Just Loki.

* * *

As it turns out, he doesn't need to use the connection he created after all. Jormungand keeps his word.

"Some place small," Loki specifies. "Populated," because though he may prefer solitude, Loki cannot bear to condemn himself to complete isolation again so soon after escaping the void, "But cut off from the realm at large."

Jormungand would know such a place. Anything bordering the ocean is known to him, because the sea is an extension of the serpent like his magic is an extension of Loki.

He places a finger on the scale Jormungand identifies, because it isn't large enough to touch with more than that, and then the sea beast begins to grow. The scale with which he must remain in contact expands until it can fit his entire hand, then his arm, and then Loki has to latch on with his magic when his fingers can no longer reach the gaps between the scales to grip, nor find purchase on the smooth scale itself.

By the time Jormungand stops growing, Loki can't see the end of the scale in any direction. What he _can_ see is land, not far from where he is standing in shoulder-deep water. The scale is a warm russet as it sinks back below the surface, perfectly matching the hue cast by the setting sun on the water.

Loki waits for the water to settle back into the normal ebb and flow of the tide in the serpent's wake, then begins to trudge inland.

* * *

So, three chapters in and we've yet to come the end of Loki's long (and, thus far, fairly crappy) first day on Midgard. On the one hand, this story is progressing really slowly; on the other, it's ridiculously fun to write. I swear we'll get to the bit in the summary eventually!

Fact of the Day: Mimir, in Norse mythology was the keeper of a well which granted great wisdom to whoever drank from it. Odin forfeit his eye in exchange for a drink, and the bargain is implied to be fairly common knowledge in myth-verse.

Really, I just came up with the pun while hopped up on pain meds when everything seemed funny and I wanted an excuse to use it. Even if it is awful.

Also, seidr = magic, more or less.

Next Chapter : In Which Loki Tries To Be Inconspicuous But Is Accidentally a Hero

… And also a missionary. Sort of. He really has no idea what he's doing right now.


End file.
